Losing Trust
by RBTL
Summary: How do you tell people you were once molested? Fred II/James II, incest, molestation, one-shot This is a painful look at how the victim of family sexual abuse might feel. READ WITH CAUTION. IT IS NOT A HAPPY STORY.


_**ATTENTION**_

THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE AROUSING. IT IS A PAINFUL LOOK AT HOW A VICTIM OF MOLESTATION MIGHT FEEL. THIS MIGHT TRIGGER PEOPLE WHO WERE SEXUALLY ABUSED. PLEASE READ CAUTIOUSLY.

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How do you tell people you were once molested? Should you tell? What if it happened years and years ago?

I was nine when it happened. Albus, Lily and I were sleeping over at Aunt Angelina and Uncle George's house. Albus and Lily liked to play with Roxanne because she played little kids games with them.

Me? I liked to play with Fred.

Fred never treated me like a kid, the way Victoire and Teddy and Dominique did. Even Louis treated me like a baby, and he is only three years older than I am. Fred never did that though.

He was always my favourite cousin. Most of the time he still is. It's just when the memories come back to haunt me that I have trouble even thinking his name.

That night, when we all slept over, I chose to sleep in Fred's room. Lily and Al slept in the guest bedroom, but I wanted to be in the same room as my favourite cousin. It was commonplace for me to sleep with Fred. He never seemed to mind, and we would stay up late talking about anything and everything. Fred was six years older than me, and I thought he was wiser than any adult.

That's why I trusted him that night.

We slept together in Fred's double bed. None of the adults seemed to think there was anything wrong with that, so neither did I. We stayed up half of the night talking like normal. For some reason, Fred and I ended up talking about sex. He told me a story about how he walked in on a whole dorm full of fifth years boys doing things to each other. It didn't sound right to me at the time, but I let him keep talking. No one else discussed this kind of thing with me.

He told me how the boys were kissing and touching and rubbing against each other. His voice rose as he spoke, and he sounded excited about it. I couldn't really understand why. The whole idea grossed me out.

Then he asked me if I want to see what he was talking about.

I think that if I had said no, he would have backed off. Fred is a good person. Really, he is. He wanted me to agree to things before he did them to me. I was only nine though. All I knew was that he wanted me to say yes. I didn't have any idea what he was really talking about.

So, I said yes.

I saw him smile in the darkness, and then he rolled over on top of me. When I asked what he was doing, he just told me that he was showing me what the boys had done. Then he started rubbing up against me.

He was hard. I could feel him, though I didn't really understand what that meant then. I had only the most basic knowledge of sex. What I did know was that if he rubbed himself against me just right, it felt good.

He didn't talk as he moved. He just kept rubbing against me, and making me feel good. And I knew it was wrong. I knew there was something wrong about that. I was embarrassed, and I know I was flushing, though I'm sure he couldn't see it in the darkness. I hated the feelings that he was giving me.

I tried, at one point, to ask him to stop. I told him I was uncomfortable. He just patted my head and told me it was supposed to feel uncomfortable, but good. I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't want to disappoint him. I kept my mouth shut, and I closed my eyes. I just laid there until he shuddered hard and rolled off me.

I can still remember his words to me in the darkness. "Felt good, didn't it?"

I agreed, and then he rolled over and fell asleep. I know I must have slept at some point that night, but I can't remember anything besides laying next to him and feeling... used, for lack of a better term.

He never did it again. I never learned why he did it that night. The silly story he told me about an orgy in the dorm was obviously a lie meant to give him an opening, but I don't know why he picked me to do that with. I'm seventeen now, and I rarely remember that night. It still affects me though. If people mention molestation or rape, that is the first thing that comes to my mind.

I know that it fits the textbook definition of molestation, but I cannot connect the word to the experience. Molestation puts the blame on Fred, but it wasn't all his fault. I said yes.

Intellectually, I know it wasn't my fault. I know he was the one who did it. I was coerced into doing it.

I can't blame Fred though. I love him. In the daytime, I never remember what happened. He's just my favourite cousin then.

It's just when nausea and disgust overwhelm me, when I live the memory over and over again in my head, that I want to blame him. I want to tell people that this is what happened. This is why the thought of having sex freaks me out. This is why I cannot sleep in the same bed as anyone over the age of five. This is what hurt me once upon a time, years and years ago.

I can't do it though. How do you tell people this happened to you? How do you open yourself up to that kind of pity and disgust?

I don't have to tell. I probably shouldn't tell. It happened so long ago, and we were both fully clothed, and it probably doesn't even count as a molestation because Fred was only fifteen at the time, so we were both kids. It might get Fred in trouble if I told. That's why I've never been able to tell anyone about this. I just can't face what might happen. I know it's stupid. I'm protecting Fred even after what he did to me. I'm letting myself be scared away from relationships because of this.

If you were me, would you tell? Or would you just get over it?

Can you ever get over something like this? Can you ever rebuild yourself? Can you ever remember what it means to feel pure affection for the person who did this to you? Or will your memory of that person always be tainted by this?

I ask myself questions like this when I remember what happened. I don't remember all that often. Once a month, a few times a year, it's not like I keep track. But when I do remember, nausea overtakes me and I have to struggle to breathe. I wish I could talk to someone about this, but right now, with the memories flooding my brain, all I want to do is curl into a ball and pray no one ever finds out.


End file.
